Schadenfreude
by sinnerwithafuture
Summary: They shared many things. Austria, Switzerland, Prussia, and Germany were bound by similarities and differences, by love, by hate, by a past they could never outrun, and by the elation they each felt at the pain and failure of others: Schadenfreude. The monster in the mirror was the pain of their peoples. Through war, and pain, and even prosperity, the only constant was each other.
1. Prologue

**Author's note:** Hello, everyone! Welcome to my fic, first of all. While there are not any triggers or real warnings for this chapter, I believe you should all know what you're going to be reading.

**This fic _will_ contain:** Shonen-ai, Yaoi, numerous pairings, incest, self-harm, violence, death, cruelty, swearing, abuse, implied non-con, and other things that may make you uncomfortable.

**Disclaimer:** I honestly don't own Hetalia, and I'm not making any sort of profit.

**Expanded Summary: **They shared many things. Austria, Switzerland, Prussia, and Germany were bound by similarities and differences, by love, by hate, by a past they could never outrun, and by the elation they each felt at the pain and failure of others: Schadenfreude. The monster in the mirror was the pain of their peoples. Through war, and pain, and even prosperity, the only constant was each other. Prussia was the favorite son. Germany was Frankenstein's monster, grown from the ashes of a childhood no one wanted to remember. Switzerland was caught between two great loves, the past and the present, and his own morality. Austria was an outsider amongst those closest to him, unremarkable compared to his family. This is their history, with each other and the other nations, the chronicles of their existences marred by their own humanity.

* * *

_We were united by many things in the old days: blood, honor, love, hate, friendship, alliances, a language, ideas, ideals, cultures, and the overwhelming sense of loneliness that came with being a nation. Now, things are different. We each dance to a new song, individuals who can't really claim that the bindings of family still apply to them, strangers in a world moving several beats faster than we are._

_Our bond today is a bond of memories based in the pains of our peoples. There was a point in time where calling each other by our real names was something we took for granted, something we abused constantly. I can't think of anyone who calls me Roderich anymore. I'm not even sure our current bosses are quite aware that we are just as human as they are, if not more. _

_We are not immortal; Rome and Germania taught us that. We are not anything other than cursed beings. Friedrich Nietzsche wrote that God is dead, and I used to scoff at that. People will always surprise you, that I've always known. I just wish I'd learned sooner that the surprises often came in the form of cruelty. _

_In German, we have a phrase so suiting that the English language has now adopted it as well: Schadenfreude, or joy at the misfortune of others. A form of sadism, to be sure, but I find it apt that the term originated in our lands. Because, if we weren't getting any joy out of the pain we brought to each other and our denizens, what was our purpose?_

_There are infinite forms of love, and far be it from me to pretend that when I dwell on any them that I'm doing anything more than grasping at straws. I have loved many people, in many ways. Switzerland was the first, then Spain and the Italy brothers, followed by Hungary, Germany, and numerous humans inter-spaced between them. Not all of these loves were sexual, and the line between amorous love and platonic affection has always been a thin, gray thing for me. However, as flippant as I may seem in my affections, as unsure as I am of the nature of love, I believe firmly that I have experienced, on some level, true love in the arms of a certain diary-keeping, platinum-haired Prussian. _

_It's a pity that the best of loves are the ones most often laced with tragedy._


	2. Chapter one: part one

The bell tolls from an eternity away, marking the end of the fifth day in a row that no one has visited me. Hungary calls every day at nine, but is too busy to make the trip to my country over something as stupid as her ex-husband falling down a flight of stairs—or that's what I tell myself anyhow.

As I look out the window, I come to understand that now that Prussia has left me, I really am alone. Every nation seems to have someone these days: Switzerland has his sister, Spain has Romano, Germany has Italy. I suppose Hungary is still alone, but after our divorce and living with Russia, she seems to prefer it that way.

I can hear the sigh in my tone as I report to my nurse that I am ready to return home. She asks how I am, and the way her eyes bore into me, I can tell she won't accept anything less than the truth. What else is there to do but lie and divert?

I'm fine.

_You want to know how I am? I'm miserable. I have come to the realization that not one other nation cares for me. Whatever Gilbert was to me, and whatever I was to him, is moot now because he left. I'm still in a beastly amount of pain, and I can't see what the use is in leaving this abysmal place other than my house needs dusting and no one else will do it properly. _

I'm fine.

The second time I say it seems to make her understand that no matter how much she picks me apart with her eyes, she will never get a straight answer from me. Her disappointment is palpable, but I couldn't care less. She is a stranger to me, and, even if she weren't, trust is not something to be extended outside one's self.

The hospital insists on my taking a cab home, and I do so rather unwillingly. I refrain from making conversation with the driver. I simply tell him my address and sulk the rest of the way.

I know the minute I enter my home that someone has been there in my absence, though there are only two other people who have a key to my house, and the entry was not forced. The only thought that I can muster based off of that is that Prussia came to his senses and returned. Yes, that must be it!

But he's not in the bedroom, or the kitchen, or the parlor, or the dining room, or the yard, or anywhere. Then, all too quickly, there is only one room left to check: my music room. The way to my sanctum has never seemed so long a journey.

I fling the door open, and swallow the bitter hurt that comes with the knowledge that he has not returned, and that I truly am alone. I slink to my piano, hating the damned instrument, hating Prussia, but mostly hating myself. The envelope escapes my notice for several long, tear-filled moments.

It's a creamy off-white color, and when I rip it open, a note flutters to the floor, and a key lands beside it. Contrary to my first impression, it is not the key to my house. I pick it and the note up, and unfold the paper.

_**To aid in your understanding of events**_

An address follows that cryptic phrase, an address I recognize as belonging to a bank. Under the address, in the same half-scrawled lettering, lies another sentence, this one slightly more telling:

_**Code is: "The AWESOME me!" **_

A safety deposit box. Prussia left me, and the reasoning behind his madness apparently lies in a safety deposit box.

I am ever so tempted to throw both the key and the note out, and never dwell on him again. He's probably in the arms of another as I stare down at his bull shit note and try to keep it from getting wet.

I wipe my eyes. Prussia is an idiot, but he doesn't really ever do anything without a purpose. Besides, the self-loathing piece of me wants to know why I wasn't good enough so that it can twist my heart into even deeper oblivion.

Just like that, I find myself walking in the rain, through the streets of Vienna, oblivious to everything except the steady click of my boots against the wet pavement and the drumming of the rain against my umbrella.

The bank's interior is classic architecture juxtaposed against dim florescent lighting, and the overall effect is eerily similar to that a funeral parlor might have. Despite my hopes, I am led back without much hassle, and I soon find myself face to face with the vault.

The box is easy to find, and the biggest hindrance I have encountered thus far is my own shaking hands. I bring the box to a private room for viewing. The lock clicks as it opens, the sound resonating in my chamber.

With much hesitance I open it, half expecting something utterly macabre, or a prank, or really anything but its actual contents: pages from the diary of Prussia.


	3. Chapter one: part two

The air is still, interrupted only by the occasional puffs of smoke from his cigarette. Smoking is something that we both picked up in our days as the Axis powers. Japan never joined in.

Germany's eyes hold an unspeakable emotion—maybe sadness—in the early morning light. I blink. When I open my eyes again, the pain is gone and he's staring at me as the cigarette slowly dies between his strong fingers. I half fancy that I imagined it.

"Good morning, Italy." he says.

I smile faintly, but its a lie. All our years together as friends, best friends, and now whatever this is, and he still won't call me Feliciano.

Still struggling for life, the light from his cigarette illuminates his immaculate hands. Oh, how I love Ludwig's hands. They're capable of creating and destroying. They can inflict pain _and _pleasure. I think that if God exists then he must have hands as powerful and beautiful as my Germany's.

I snuggle back into the sheets. "Can't we sleep a bit longer, Germany? It's not even fully light out, and you said we didn't have to do laps today because I worked so, so hard yesterday, and I just want to go back to bed with you!"

He sighs at that, and I just know I've disappointed him yet again. Germany claims to be the sadist, and sometimes he is. But I know that he's a masochist on some emotional level, since he stays with me. He _knows_ I will do nothing but dash his hopes, but he keeps on trying.

Still, we love each other.

"Italy." he starts to say something, but then he just shakes his head. "Fine, sleep in. I'll be out with the dogs or something. Don't expect me back for some time."

I let him leave. What else is there? If I stop him, it will make us both vulnerable, and the resulting argument will harm us both. Sure, he's probably going to come home drunk, and blame himself, blame me, blame his brother, blame everyone. He'll throw things, and cry, and I'll wait until he's done and then I'll help him to our room, and things will go one of two ways.

One: he's calmer, he can see that the wars are not really anyone's fault and he gets sad and then I comfort him the best I know how, and in the morning there is aspirin on his bedside table, and I'm asleep in his arms.

Two: he's angrier, he can see that I didn't stop him, that no one even tried and then he sees all the dead, and he gets _angry _and then I let him do _whatever_ he needs to do so that this rage is gone in the morning, and when he wakes up neither of us say anything.

I don't bring up the bruises, and he doesn't either. The tears are also unmentioned.

My day drifts by the same way that all the days without Germany do: I paint.

I had stopped painting for several years, but something in being left by Germany over and over again has brought it out of me, and I need to do it more than ever.

I paint the sky. I paint fields. I paint churches. I paint everything except for people. There is only one person I paint, just one. I paint _him_. I paint apologies, because I _swore _to wait, because I'm _unfaithful_, because I _lied. _

My biggest regret is not the wars I've fought, though it probably should be. It's not the times I've fought with my brother, though he suffers more than he'll ever say. It's not joining _him_. If I had let _him _become one with me, _he _might have lived.

But then Germany wouldn't be my best friend anymore, and that makes me sad. Because Ludwig is a good friend too, but he's not _him_, and that kills me. I compare them to each other at every opportunity. The worst days are when the memories overlap with realities. Germany's food tastes like crap too. Their eyes were both so piercing.

But Germany never smiles at me the way _he_ did. He doesn't comfort me. He won't draw with me, and he doesn't really like flowers. And I hate him for it sometimes.

But I also love Germany. Even when he's scary or mean, I love that he doesn't give up. I'm a mess of contradictions, but I swear its all true.

The oils merge into his soft face. So young, yet so much wiser than I was. Or was he? I got to grow up, and he's dead. All of a sudden that's what the painting shows too. His blood, the glazed over eyes, he's just _dead_.

I've never drawn him dead before.

And then I'm somehow in the painting. Not literally, but there I stand, in that stupid dress, looking down at the blood because there's just so much of it. It's staining my clothes, and I know that Austria will get me new ones soon anyway now that I've hit puberty.

And there's Prussia, in the corner, crying. He's just sobbing and you can see that he never meant for this, but it's far too late, and—oh God, Holy Rome is _dead_.

And there's France, who Prussia will never, ever forgive, standing there with his sword, and it's _that _sword that killed Holy Rome. And I will also never forgive France, big brother France may as well be dead there too for all he means to me. But it's not always going to be like that, because I will repress this sight even as Austria and Hungary tear me away, and Prussia runs off with _his _body, and—oh God, Holy Rome.

I can't begin to move for what feels like hours. Knowing he must of died, and remembering it are two _very _different things. He's never going to see these stupid paintings and sketches because he is _dead_. He's not going to be sad about Germany being my lover or friend or whatever because he is _dead_.

Germany comes home drunk.


End file.
